The One Who Got Away
by Seven Positions
Summary: He couldn’t hear his friend pleading with him. He was letting the conversation he’d just had run through his mind, over and over again, in broken snippets." Shawn receives a terrible phone call one morning. Shawn/Abigail, in a sense. T for language.
1. Chapter 1

Hey guys. I'm sorry for posting a new story when Thump hasn't been updated in a while. I'm working on the new chapter, but it is slowgoing. Should be out soon, though, I'm almost done.

Anyway- this is a short piece designed to give me Abigail-related closure. I liked her, and I'm kind of pissed that she fell off the face of the earth with barely any explanation. After she left in You Can't Handle This Episode, I toyed with the idea of writing this story, and I wanted to get it in before tonight's episode, because I saw a clip of it and Shawn was acting suspiciously single. I could probably rant more on the subject, but I'll just move on.

This may be a two-shot, depending on how motivated I am to keep going and how terrible my writer's block for Thump continues to be.

T for swears, I guess.

* * *

The call was disconnected, and Shawn pulled the phone away from his ear to stare at it incredulously. Then, in one fluid motion, he stood up and slammed the cell phone onto the desk, yelling, "_Shit_!"

Gus, who was just coming into the office, froze and stared at the agitated form of his best friend. "What's going on? What happened?"

Shawn raised his hands to press against his face and then curled his fingers into his hair. "Oh, _god,_" he moaned, sounding sick.

Gus dropped his briefcase and moved forward, stretching his arms forward. "Sit down," he ordered, stern but quiet.

"_Shawn Spencer, psychic detective. What can I divine for you today?"_

"_Hello, uh, this is…" the person on the other line took a deep breath. "This is Frank Lytar, Abigail's father…"_

"Shawn, you're really freaking me out. What happened?"

He couldn't hear his friend pleading with him. He was letting the conversation he'd just had run through his mind, over and over again, in broken snippets.

"_Shawn_!" Gus shook his shoulder hard, and he finally registered his surroundings for the first time since—

_He knew by the tone of the man's voice that there was something wrong. His heart hammered in his chest and he clenched the phone tightly in his hands._

"_What can I do for you?_"

"_We… Abigail's mother and I… found your number in the paper. I… We haven't met, but we thought you should…_"

"Gus," he choked out, staring at his friend with a look of shock and sadness. Gus was stricken by the raw emotion there, and reached out to plant a steady hand on Shawn's shoulder.

"Abigail's dead."

* * *

She had caught some virus, a virus he hadn't bothered to remember the name of, while teaching stupid starving children in goddamn Uganda. It had killed her quickly—twenty-four hours—and they had called her parents while she was too sick to speak to them, let alone understand what was happening.

They were sending the body—_his Abigail's_ body, which had been warm and soft the last time he had seen her, kissed her—back to Santa Barbara, and the funeral would commence on Thursday.

He didn't want to go. He knew he had to, and he would, but he desperately wanted to stay home on Thursday. He didn't want to see her casket, or her grieving family. He wouldn't be able to handle it.

No, if he could stay home he could wallow in misery alone, without anyone watching him, pitying him, expecting anything of him.

He didn't have anything to wear, either. Maybe Gus would get him a suit if he gave him the money. He didn't want to leave his apartment long enough to do it himself.

It had been approximately twenty-seven hours since he'd gotten the news and he was sitting on his couch, staring at the TV, studiously avoiding looking at the picture of Abigail and himself that was hanging on the wall. It was three o' clock in the afternoon and he was wearing nothing but the t-shirt and jeans he'd thrown on yesterday morning.

Gus hadn't been able to get the day off of work, so he had been free to neglect himself totally. He knew that, in about two hours, his best friend would be here, making him shower and eat something. In the meantime, he was just going to keep sitting here, not looking at his Abigail's face.


	2. Chapter 2

Two updates in one day! Of course, I think the fan base for this story is a lot smaller than the one for Thump. If you are reading this, go read Thump! It's a cool fic.

Disclaimer: I don't own Psych.

Second installment of The One Who Got Away. I really, really enjoyed writing this. It's a very emotional chapter and I pretty much cranked it out in a couple hours. I hope you like it as much as I do!

* * *

There were Abigail's parents and her sister, sitting in the front pew. He'd never met any of them. It was weird, seeing them here. He could see her in them, when he was able to catch a glimpse of their faces. They belonged here, in this church, mourning.

He didn't.

The picture of her sitting on top of the casket was beautiful. He got up the courage to look at it a few minutes before the service started, and throughout the whole thing, he couldn't look away.

Her family belonged here, but he didn't. Who was _he_? Just some idiot who loved her and let her go.

Shit, he didn't _deserve_ to be here.

Gus was sitting next to him, offering silent support while stealing worried glances. So what if he hadn't styled his hair to perfection that morning, or since he'd gotten the phone call? At least he'd showered, and was wearing a nice, clean new suit. Shawn felt a surge of annoyance at his friend and immediately felt miserable and guilty.

_He's just worried about you. He should be. You look like crap and you feel like crap._

Gus had come to pick him up earlier that morning, and stood around while Shawn finished getting ready. "We don't have to go, you know," he had said.

But Shawn already knew he was going to go. He hadn't gotten enough of her while she was alive. He needed to try to fill himself with her presence while he could, to make up for it. He didn't know how well it would work, not while she was lying dead in a casket, but he had to try.

The priest invited Abigail's mother up to the podium to speak and Shawn continued to stare steadfastly at the picture. He didn't want to hear her, didn't want to look at her, didn't want to remember this speech for the rest of his life. He tuned her out and instead looked at Abigail's face and remembered what is was like when he had her, before Uganda.

After the service, Shawn just wanted to leave as quickly as possible, but her grieving family found him. Thankfully, Gus was there, and Gus always knew what he needed. After a brief exchange with the Lytars, the sales rep smiled and made a smooth exit with his best friend in tow.

Back at his apartment, Shawn collapsed onto the couch in his new suit and turned on the TV, hoping to distract himself from the mental image of Abigail's little sister, red-faced, silently crying as she looked at him with wide eyes: eyes that had looked at him before, from his girlfriend's face.

* * *

It had been two weeks.

Henry sighed, rubbing his hand vigorously over the hair on the back of his head. He was standing in front of his son's apartment door, steeling himself before knocking and having to see the man that dwelled inside.

Henry had gotten the call from Gus the same day Shawn had found out, and figured he'd give the kid some time. Two weeks may have been a little excessive, but he never claimed to be good at feelings.

"_Mr. Spencer? It's Gus._"

He had known something was wrong right away. When he heard that Abigail had died, he'd sat down heavily on the couch and sighed, "Shit. Is he okay?"

"_No. He's really… I mean… I don't know if I've ever seen him like this._"

Henry raised his hand and knocked. It took a minute, but eventually, the door opened and there he was.

The sight nearly knocked the breath out of him. Shawn was worse than he thought, much worse. He kicked himself for not being there earlier, not helping his son before he got to this point. Two weeks in and still a mess.

At least, he thought, he couldn't smell alcohol.

"Can I come in?"

Wordlessly, he was let into the apartment as his host retreated to the couch. There were junk food wrappers everywhere, dirty dishes, dirty socks. Shawn sat watching TV in his pajamas (which looked like they had been worn repeatedly for a week without washing, probably had), wrapped in a blanket. He was unshaven and his hair was greasy and matted down.

"Shawn, when's the last time you took a shower?"

He was met with an annoyed sigh, the kind that Shawn always gave him even when nothing terrible had happened, when no one had died, and: "If you're just going to criticize me, you can leave."

Henry heard it, lingering underneath the scathing comment: _Help me_.

It made his heart break; he could _feel _the crushing weight of the sorrow Shawn was in.

"No, that's not what I'm here for." He crossed over to the couch and sat down, grunting as he did. Shawn didn't speak, just watched the television and accepted his presence.

After a few moments of silence, he put his arm around Shawn's shoulders. The young man tensed, muscles tight, ready to bolt—but he stayed.

"Shawn, will you look at me a second?"

It took more than a second, but eventually, they locked eyes. The younger Spencer's gaze was guarded, attempting to hide the suffering behind them.

"I'm so sorry."

And he didn't just mean about Abigail, but also about every other thing he'd ever done wrong by his son. Every time he told his son to _close his eyes, how many hats? _Every little thing in the boy's life he'd failed to understand. Every derisive word.

Shawn stared for just a moment longer before his face opened up, revealing an expression of raw pain. He leaned forward and rested his head on his dad's shoulder, allowing himself to be folded into Henry's embrace. His eyes closed and his face tightened, but he didn't cry. He just breathed.

* * *

A few days later, Shawn finally broke.

He strode angrily around his apartment, screaming, ranting to the picture of Abigail on the wall. He cursed her for leaving him, for getting sick, for leaving him with this deep empty pit in his chest where his heart was, because it _hurt, _dammit! How could she do this to him? _How_?

His breath ripped in and out of his lungs painfully as he paced, as he shouted, as he slammed his fists into the wall.

When he was done yelling, he slumped against the wall and sobbed loudly, letting out every moment of silent hurt he'd been living in since the phone call. He kept going long after the tears stopped streaming down his face.

And finally, finally, he was finished. He sprawled out on the floor, completely drained, but feeling significantly less like he was rotting from the inside. His body still ached for her to live, of course, but he no longer felt trapped by it, by this longing.

He stood up, slowly, and trudged over to the picture of the two of them. She was beautiful. Instead of turning away, overcome by pain, he gave it a sad, watery smile.

"I love you," he said to her image.

He could be okay.

* * *

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